


Tales of Travelers

by coricomile



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Music, Physics, Physics What Physics?, The Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Listeners, I know you’re all just as eager to know about Carlos’s latest discovery as I am,” Cecil says, humming sweetly into his microphone. It hums back at him cheerfully. “Alas, he refuses to answer my calls when we’re on air. Something about ‘professionalism’, which is ridiculous because I have my degree in professionalism framed on the station wall. Maybe he needs a closer look at my credentials.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of Travelers

“To those asking about the giant lizard seen around Telly’s Barber Shop,” Cecil says into the microphone, leaned back into his rolling chair, “don’t. The sheriff's secret police have identified the creature and report that thinking about it only makes it grow larger.” The buzzer on the table jumps. Cecil scoops it up with his free hand and frowns. “Oh, my. It appears the lizard has had a sudden growth spurt. Whoops.”

Out in the hall, the sound of station management buzzing floats around. Contract time is just around the corner. Cecil’s pretty sure he’s safe. He’s the only on-air DJ they have. The rest just make a lot of noise inside their own studios and hope that they’ll be heard through the walls. Cecil remembers those days fondly. Ah, youth.

“Listeners, I know you’re all just as eager to know about Carlos’s latest discovery as I am,” Cecil says, humming sweetly into his microphone. It hums back at him cheerfully. “Alas, he refuses to answer my calls when we’re on air. Something about ‘professionalism’, which is ridiculous because I have my degree in professionalism framed on the station wall. Maybe he needs a closer look at my credentials.”

Carlos, beautiful Carlos, with his _science_ and his _questions_ is the best part of Cecil’s day. Even on Void days, when he isn’t supposed to like anything at all. He hopes that the secret police don’t listen in on his conversations on Void days. They’re always so _excited_. 

“The Applebees on Greenview has reported sightings of mutant strawberries hiding in the most recent shipments.” Cecil rocks back onto the back legs of his chair, trying to see if he can make it float. Some days, it lets him do whatever he wants. Others, like today apparently, it just shakes angrily at him and tosses him back into the desk. “So far, only three people have reported boils, but the day is young.”

There’s a knock on the door, and then Intern Ryan peeks in. One of the kittens permanently affixed to his sweater mewls. He’s got a notepad in his hands, waving it just a touch too fast for Cecil to read it. When Cecil shrugs, Ryan rolls his eyes and mouths _Carlos_ before slipping back out. So far, he’s the best intern the station’s had. Cecil hopes he lasts longer than the others.

“That, dear listeners, is my cue to wrap it up for the night,” Cecil says, settling his microphone back into its stand. His chair rumbles warningly. “As ever, remember that you are beautiful because beauty is an ever changing mandate set by the hooded figures. If you don’t fit it today, you may tomorrow! Good night, Night Vale. Good night.” 

The radio clicks to static as Cecil cuts the feed. He shimmies out of his cranky chair and bounds to the lobby. _Carlos_ here to see _him_. How wonderful.

Carlos is leaning against the check-in desk, his lab coat open and white. He smiles when he sees Cecil, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Cecil’s hearts thump until he feels like he’s going to fall over. It’s very inconvenient. Intern Ryan rolls his eyes and pets his kittens. 

“It was a good show,” Carlos says, nodding at the open studio door. His sweet, sweet voice feels like sugar flooding straight into Cecil’s veins. It might be. Stranger things have happened. “Though maybe you shouldn’t talk about me so much. I’m not relevant to the Night Vale community at large.”

“Nonsense,” Cecil says, hands on his hips. “I say you’re important, and that’s all that matters. Night Vale listens to me. Literally and metaphorically. I am the mind of the people.”

Carlos looks at him for a moment, head tilted in that way he gets whenever Cecil tries to explain things to him. Sometimes, Cecil forgets that Carlos wasn’t raised there like the rest of them, that he came specifically to investigate the ways Night Vale is different from the rest of the world. Life without him seems... pale. Boring.

“Maybe,” Carlos eventually says. He pats one of Ryan’s kittens affectionately and pushes off the desk. “I have something I wanted to show you. Could you accompany me?”

“Always.” Cecil scuttles to his side, preening as he follows Carlos through the doors and out into the cold, brisk air of the night. Above them, the mysterious lights twinkle from red to yellow to blue and back again. 

The walk is silent, but Cecil can listen to the soft way Carlos’s breaths run out and rush in, and he can hear the squawks of the little people who live under the bowling alley coming up through the sewers, and it so very, very nice. 

“When I lived -- before Night Vale,” Carlos says as he unlocks the heavy door of his house. It’s such a nice house, with wide awnings and barely any blood stains. “I used to play music. And I tried to play a song earlier, but --”

He motions for Cecil to sit on the plush, worn armchair in the living room. It doesn’t even huff when Cecil settles into the cushions. How strange. When Carlos settles across from him, he’s holding a guitar across his lap. It is old and beautiful. Cecil’s never seen one in real life. Only in the pictures Carlos’s shown him. 

“Watch,” he says, and strums his fingers down the strings. Above Cecil’s head, a tiny rain cloud pops into the air. Carlos frowns at it. He moves his fingers and tries again. A bolt of lightening tickles at Cecil’s neck, followed by a tiny clap of thunder. Cecil laughs.

“You’re magical,” Cecil says, tilting his face up to look at the cloud. It’s puffy and dark, heavy with rain. When Carlos strums the guitar again, it bursts into a steady, even trickle of water that plasters Cecil’s hair to his face.

“It’s not supposed to do that,” Carlos says. He sets the guitar to the side of the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t -- I have no idea how it’s doing that at all. Physics can’t explain--”

“You made me _music_ ,” Cecil says, awed. The little rain cloud fades away, leaving the wetness behind. Cecil’s hearts thump, thump, thump in his chest. Carlos blinks at him. 

“No, that’s not--”

Cecil wants to know what Carlos’s trying to say, he really does, but so much more than that he wants to kiss him. Cecil is known for many things around Night Vale, but patience and self-restraint are not among them. 

Carlos tastes like fizzy soda water. That is the taste of science, Cecil thinks, and files it away for later notage. He’s sure the community needs to know. Carlos flails under him for a moment, arms and legs spread wide around the space Cecil’s taking up, and then he’s on board, kissing Cecil back carefully.

“You’re beautiful,” Cecil says when he can. Carlos laughs, that heavenly little sound that makes Cecil’s insides bunch. Cecil was made to tell the truth. It’s written in his contract. He’ll have to show Carlos, later, so he’ll know. 

“You’re... so weird,” Carlos says, but it sounds fond. He spreads a hand over Cecil’s back, warm through his shirt. The tentacle right below it twitches. “I like it.”


End file.
